


NHMR Productions, Inc.

by apple_pi



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The show is a surprise - it happens when HGTV runs some kind of poll on their website (touting it on the channel, as well, of course), and people are supposed to recommend the most persnickety, perfectionist, irritatingly anal-retentive contractor in their area. For some reason, this apparently means "Rodney McKay" to a few hundred Toronto-area residents, and when HGTV does a special on the best contractors in a dozen large cities, he gets a phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	NHMR Productions, Inc.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mirabile Dictu (Mira)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/gifts), [monanotlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/gifts), [Vicki Rae](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Vicki+Rae).



> This is for the marvelous Mirabile Dictu, and also (if it's cool with everybody), Monanotlisa and Vicki Rae, with love and apologies. Why apologies? Well, because this is my "help_haiti" fic. *ducks* I know, I know. And I still owe a LOTRPS fic to one other bidder (I am soooo close to being done, Kate, I appreciate your forbearance!). If it's any consolation, ladies, it's nearly 10,000 words long, and I know your donations toward Haiti's healing were appreciated and well-used. Thank you!!!
> 
> So, enough with the self-castigation. On with the notes!
> 
> What happens when an SGA fangirl watches a lot of _Holmes on Homes_ on HGTV? Well, first off, she might develop a wee crush on Mike Holmes, who is one heaping helping of uber-competent man-candy. And secondly, she might think about how nice Holmes' shoulders look when he wears overalls with a tank top - trust me, he can work it - and how nice _Rodney McKay's_ shoulders would look in a tank top, and how nice his ass might look with a toolbelt hugging it, and how good John Sheppard would look wearing a hardhat over his crazy hair, and - well. Here we are!
> 
> Special thanks to Toft, for coming to my rescue with her mad Latin skillz. Go Team Latin!

~*~

 

The show is a surprise - it happens when HGTV runs some kind of poll on their website (touting it on the channel, as well, of course), and people are supposed to recommend the most persnickety, perfectionist, irritatingly anal-retentive contractor in their area. For some reason, this apparently means "Rodney McKay" to a few hundred Toronto-area residents, and when HGTV does a special on the best contractors in a dozen large cities, he gets a phone call. Can a camera crew follow him around for a few days, a week at most? No, absolutely not, Rodney says, I do _not_ need this crap, but they sic a lanky, annoying, weirdly charming face named Sheppard on him, and somehow Rodney's talked into it. The cameras follow Rodney around for a week, then ten days, and then the cameras are gone, Sheppard with them.

Rodney isn't disappointed at all. He doesn't miss delivering scathing, on-camera appraisals of the work done by other, lesser contractors; he doesn't miss the open-mouthed astonishment on the faces of the crew when he rips into a subcontractor or (more rarely) homeowner; he definitely doesn't miss Sheppard's drawled commentary, on- and off-camera, or the way he looks in faded jeans and a hard-hat, or the way he slouches against half-finished drywall and watches Rodney tear through a house, smiling a little, mocking him.

When the special is aired on HGTV, Rodney watches. Sheppard delivers his narrative with an aw-shucks charm totally missing from his real-life persona, and the other contractors are boring, but Rodney is secretly (silently, watching with Teyla, his project manager) pleased at the way they've cut his segment, the montages that keep the best of his meanness along with his competence, the sharp back-and-forth with his crew. Teyla looks good, too, working beside him or smoothing ruffled feathers after he's had his say, and the jobs they show him on look fantastic when he's done - of course, but still. It's nice to see it there, in high definition, 1080 DPI, Dolby sound. Rodney predicts that he'll start getting a lot more calls from around town.

He does, and the summer goes by a rush of jobs. Money money money, it's all good, he tells Teyla, and she tips her head to the side, half agreement, half not.

"I would not mind a slower pace," she says. "Four or five jobs a month, instead of ten. I miss Kanaan."

"Do you need time off?" Rodney asks, blinking at her. "Because you can have time off if you want it. Whatever you need. I can handle the crew myself for a week or two."

Teyla snorts, somehow with gentility. "No, you cannot," she corrects him. "I would like a long weekend, and you should take one as well."

"After the Reicher job is done," he promises, and he delivers, although there are three more offers just waiting, three more homes that _need_ him, need to be saved from shoddy construction and careless crew chiefs. But better to leave the jobs waiting than to lose Teyla.

Sheppard calls on Friday at 10 a.m., while Rodney's fidgeting at home waiting for the long weekend to be over, staring out the back window at the deck. He could do things to his deck over the weekend, he thinks. He's standing on the redwood planking, rocking thoughtfully on the balls of his feet and thinking about putting a hot tub in the corner, when his mobile rings.

He fishes it out of his pocket. "McKay here."

"Hey, McKay," says a familiar voice, "Whatcha up to?" Rodney scowls at his backyard, tiny ridiculous phone jammed against his ear.

"Who is this?" Rodney asks, although he knows, obviously.

"I'm hurt," comes Sheppard's slow, amused voice. "I thought we had something special, back in the spring." A sigh. "But I know how it is - just a quick fling, here and gone again."

"What do you want, Sheppard?" Rodney asks. He could cut away the decking in this corner, build a couple of shallow steps down, sink the hot tub so it's sitting on a concrete pad, run the plumbing from the laundry room. He's ignoring the picture that instantly popped into his head, of Sheppard's smirk, his flippy, crazy hair, laugh lines around his hazel eyes behind safety goggles, smiling at him on a job that's been finished for four months.

"Coffee," Sheppard says. "The powers that be want me to have coffee with you, and I'm in town today, so I thought I'd see if I could bring some to you on-site, or maybe we could meet tomorrow."

"I'm working at home this weekend," Rodney hears himself say. "You want to come help me work on my deck?"

There's a pause; Rodney wishes he'd just said he'd meet Sheppard at a coffee bar. "Sure," Sheppard says. "That would be cool." Another pause, and he says, "You do realize that I just talk about fixing stuff, right? I don't actually know how to do stuff, other than a lot of theoretical knowledge."

"Just a pretty face," Rodney says. "Don't worry about it. I won't let you loose on anything requiring an IQ of over 70."

"Great," Sheppard says. "When should I show up?"

Rodney does a quick calculation. "Come over around three," he says. "I have to make a run to the lumber store."

~*~

Sheppard drives up as Rodney's sawing through the decking; he appears around the corner of the house and, when Rodney looks up, reciprocating saw still vibrating in his hands, Sheppard waves. He's got a six-pack of beer in one hand and a hammer in the other; his eyes are hidden by sunglasses that wouldn't have looked out of place on Eric Estrada's face in 1982, but his smile is the same - a quirk of full lips, framed by five-o-clock shadow that's showed up two hours too early.

Rodney turns off the saw. He's already been under the deck to check his bearings, and he's dusty and cobweb-smeared; his hair is probably on end, and he knows his jeans are dirty at the knees. He feels unkempt, and turns off the saw with unaccustomed ferocity. (That's a lie; he often flips those switches, any switches, with ferocity, but he never remembers afterward.)

"Hey," Sheppard says, lifting the six-pack in a salute of sorts, "I came prepared."

"That's wonderful," Rodney snaps, "nothing mixes so well as power tools and alcohol, are you from _Texas?_ " He straightens. "Don't answer that." He points to the patio table. "Put the beer there and come here."

Sheppard does as instructed, and Rodney doesn't bother trying to have a conversation with him; he's in work mode, and whatever it is that Sheppard has to say to him, whatever his Powers That Be want said, can wait. Rodney figures there are at least three tasks he can get done before the autumn evening closes in that will be better done with two people, and Sheppard is, if nothing else, an extra pair of obedient hands.

He's more than that - he's quick and he actually listens, getting what Rodney means even when the instructions are rapped out in short, abbreviated bursts; his hands are steady with the circular saw, or the hammer, and he can measure accurately and hold Rodney's laser level steady as they first frame, then get ready to pour the concrete pad that will eventually hold Rodney's hot tub.

Darkness starts to fall as they get the concrete smooth and level, and they climb back onto the deck and look down into the shadowed crater they've created. The photo-sensitive floodlight snaps on as Ingo, Rodney's ginger tomcat, saunters out of the house to inspect the damage.

"So what're we doing?" Sheppard asks. He'd brought it up earlier, and Rodney'd said "Ask later, hold that measuring tape now."

Now Rodney presses his hands to his lower back and leans back, groaning a little. He hates crawling under stuff - always has, and hates it even more now that his knees and back complain when he does it. "We're - _I'm_ \- putting in a hot tub."

"Cool," Sheppard says. He looks around the yard, softly lit by the floods. "It'll be nice when it gets colder."

"That's what I was thinking," Rodney agrees, too tired to be sarcastic. "Come on in, I'll order Thai. What do you like?"

By the time the food arrives, Rodney's had two beers, and Sheppard still hasn't told him why he called; he's lounging on Rodney's sofa like he doesn't have anywhere else to go, booted feet flat on the floor, Ingo draped over a nearby cushion and taking shameless advantage of Sheppard's apparent willingness to hand out belly-rubs to slutty cats.

They eat in the living room, too, the TV muted on Sheppard's station, talking about the most ridiculous renos they've each witnessed or worked on, Rodney making sharp stabbing motions in the air with his chopsticks as Sheppard mocks him and tops every story with a tale of an ingenue in California, busy tearing out six-hundred-year-old pines to make cabinet doors for her walk-in closets.

"So, ah," Rodney says, the two beers warm in his belly, Sheppard slouched on his couch another warm presence, "what were you supposed to have coffee with me, about? I mean," he waves his third (almost empty) beer bottle in the air, "what? What're we supposed to be talking about?"

"Oh," Sheppard says, collapsing even deeper into the couch cushions. "Well. We want to do a new show, something where a guy goes around to people who've had bad contracting and helps them fix what's gone wrong. Like," one hand flips lazily, "righting wrongs, fixing shoddy work, you know. Like that."

"God, that would be great," Rodney says, forgetting for a moment that he doesn't even like Sheppard, with his faded jeans stretched tight across his crotch and his spiky hair and his eyes, sleepy and friendly over the (still!) half-mocking smile. "That would be a great show. Who're you going to get to be the, the guy? Because that would be great."

Sheppard's smile lines deepen, and his eyes gleam with laughter. "You, Rodney. They want you to be the guy."

Rodney stares at him for a moment. He places the beer on the coffee table. "But - my business. I can't just leave my business."

"I have an idea," Sheppard says, and leans forward.

~*~

Rodney's show premieres at eleven o' clock on a Saturday, prime HGTV time, Sheppard assures him, and they watch it together, all of them, at Rodney's house. Teyla's there, her pregnancy finally showing (damn that long weekend, anyway, Rodney thinks every time he notices her baby bump anew), Kanaan seated close beside her, several other crew members - Chuck, Amelia, Aiden, Jennifer - with their significant others. Sheppard's there, of course - he's _always_ there, Rodney thinks - and the show's director, an enormous Hawaiian named Ronon Dex, takes up an inordinate amount of room on the loveseat.

Rodney tries to talk over the show, ignore it, mock the commercials - anything but admit his pleasure in it. But he can't, he keeps falling silent to watch the segments between ads, Sheppard's questions and Rodney's answers, Teyla's serene explanations of the _whys_ behind Rodney's _hows_ , the crew's sniping, cheerful work and the beauty of the completed job, a full basement playroom that will stand years of hard wear, years of the family's feet and crayons and friends, years of Canada's frozen winters, burning summers, wet springs and autumns. He knows his pride is showing, feels from the heat in his face just how pink his cheeks must be, but he stands and leaves the room as the credits begin to roll; he has to get away.

Sheppard follows him into the kitchen. "Looks good," he says.

Rodney turns his back, opens the refrigerator and looks blindly inside. "Yes, yes," Rodney closes the fridge and looks into a cabinet instead, pulls out a box of microwavable popcorn, "naturally."

"Get ready," Sheppard says, and Rodney turns at that, paper packet in his hand.

"What? For what?"

Sheppard's eyes are smiling, and even his mouth is, just a little. "Meetings," Sheppard says, "lots and lots of meetings." He straightens and approaches, and Rodney's mouth goes dry as Sheppard reaches for - oh, the popcorn. "You thought there were meetings before," Sheppard concludes, shaking his head, turning to the microwave and opening its door.

"Oh," Rodney's voice cracks a little, "god, no - really? I don't think I can stand more meetings," he adds lamely. There's a hum of voices from the living room, laughter, Teyla's alto voice and Dex's bass rumble in reply, Amelia teasing Ronon, Jennifer's high sweet laugh. No one misses them. Sheppard puts the popcorn carefully into the microwave, closes the door. Punches a few buttons and Rodney wonders when Sheppard got so comfortable in his kitchen as the machine hums and John turns back to him, leaning against the countertop, looking at Rodney with that same half-quirked smile on his lips.

Probably sometime over the past six months, Rodney thinks. It's his own fault for insisting that all their meetings take place here, in his home which is also his workplace. There's a big outbuilding in the side yard for the tools, but the computer, the records - all the planning takes place right here, right down the hall in the spare bedroom which is his office, or in the living room, or in the kitchen with its wide shining wood table and ready access to the fridge, the microwave, the oven. Dex is probably just as comfortable here as Sheppard, but Dex isn't smirking at him from two feet away and Dex doesn't make Rodney's mouth go dry in the way that Sheppard can - does - is doing right now.

"Lots of meetings," Sheppard says abruptly, and his smile looks fake for a second as he straightens up. One of the voices in the other room comes closer. "We're going to have plenty of people applying for the McKay touch, just wait."

"The McKay touch," Rodney snorts, but his face is hot again, and he crosses his arms and ruthlessly clamps down on the smile that keeps threatening to tip the corner of his mouth upward.

Chuck saunters into the kitchen. "Do I smell popcorn?" he says, and Sheppard turns to open the microwave, smiling.

~*~

Winter and spring are crazy, a maddening whirl of not just work - work, Rodney can handle, the more work the better, as far as he's concerned - but _meetings_ , meetings with Dex and with Weir, the executive producer, meetings with homeowners who want to be on the show, meetings with his crew and with the subcontractors he trusts and wants to bring in. Zelenka for electric, Caldwell for carpentry, Beckett for plumbing, Kusanagi for greenery, even Todd the creepy tile guy.

"He's _creepy_ ," Sheppard says, eying Todd and his team of creepy, too-pale tile guys, and Rodney shrugs and nods, standing with Sheppard in an out-of-the-way corner.

"I know," Rodney says, "he's creepy as hell, but he does good work." He doesn't add that his initial distrust of Todd has now been augmented by the way Todd watches Sheppard, a hungry gleam in his pale eyes, sly overconfident suggestion in the dry digs he addresses to Sheppard when the cameras aren't on them.

"Yeah, I guess," Sheppard says, rubbing the back of his neck, watching Todd and his nephew lay slick marble tile in the bathroom they're currently renovating.

Rodney inches closer. "I've got some feelers out for someone else," he says. "His name is Lorne, he's good."

Sheppard nods, looking away from Todd, back to Rodney. "Todd doesn't get good ratings. It'd be good to have someone else lined up." His eyes flick to Dex, who's watching the Todd over the cameraman's shoulder, mouth a flat line. "And Ronon can't stand him. Says he doesn't trust him."

"I don't let him near the records," Rodney says, "but he's good with tile. And anyway, I'm still hoping to get Lorne."

It turns out that getting those first four shows in the can - that's what they say, in the can, even though everything is digital now - is nothing, compared to the ongoing madness of filming a show or even two shows a week. So there's work, there are meetings, there's the drama of firing Todd (it doesn't go smoothly, and he assures them that they haven't heard the last of him), there's Teyla's pregnancy looming with an inexorable deadline, there's the drama of hiring Lorne.

(Lorne has to be lured away from his current boss with the kinds of sweet promises Rodney is inherently, tragically bad at. Rodney's hiring process is almost nonexistent, actually; his reputation has been good enough for years that people come to _him_ to ask for jobs. He's known in the tiny incestuous world of Toronto contracting as a tough, noisy crew chief who pays well for the privilege of bludgeoning his employees into excellence. It takes Teyla and Sheppard's combined wiles to coax Lorne into leaving Hank Landry Tile to work as a full-time subcontractor for McKay Contracting, and the promise that when and if the HGTV contract ends, or when and if Lorne gets tired of working with/for Rodney [after their three-year preliminary lock-in, of course], he'll get a fat severance package, enough to set up shop on his own.)

The first season is due to end in June, three weeks before Teyla's due date and a good time, so Sheppard says, for a hiatus. HGTV has been running the show nonstop for four months, a new episode every Saturday, repeats twice during the week, in the evenings.

There's no doubt in anyone's mind that it's a hit - ratings are great, there's buzz online, Rodney's gotten calls for endorsement deals and so have most of his crew and subcontractors. Sheppard's agent Sam Carter wants to sit down and talk production company with Rodney soon, she keeps saying, and Rodney is both repelled and attracted by the idea. (Much as he's repelled and attracted by Sam herself, who is blonde and hot and _stacked_ but almost as bossy as Rodney; he decides to take a miss and tells Sheppard "I don't need this crap." Sheppard nods and looks away, smiling to himself for some reason.)

For the season finale they're renovating a homeless shelter, front to back. It's a three-week job and they'll wring four shows out of it: the kitchen and dining room, bathrooms, and the three bunk-rooms, including an expansion for homeless families. All the work is carried on simultaneously, and it'll be Dex and Sheppard who cut the finished recordings into four coherent shows. Teyla is huge now, waddling from room to room in maternity overalls and steel-toed boots, rapping out orders with the same skill as usual - and if she's slightly less patient as the orders are carried out, well, no one's going to point it out to her. Rodney's always had a healthy respect for her rare ill temper, and he steers clear when she takes over one team or another, shooting expressive looks at Sheppard when she points out his inefficiencies and edging into a different area to work if she hovers too long. (Sheppard and Dex will later cut Rodney's looks into an all-too-clear demonstration of the power Teyla holds over them all, to roars of laughter from the crews when they see the released episodes; Rodney threatens Sheppard and Dex with death and sends flowers to Teyla's house.)

And it's Teyla who gives the season finale its unbelievable ratings, finally, by going into labor during the last three days of filming, continuing work through her contractions (an increasingly frantic Kanaan wringing his hands in the background of the shots) and leaving for the birthing center only after her water breaks as she's smoothing grout into the kitchen backsplash.

They wrap a few hours later, after showing the charity bigwigs around, telling them all about the improvements, the guarantees, the efficiencies and beauties of the new appliances, drywall, plumbing, electrical - everything strong and sure and gorgeous. "That's a wrap," Dex says, and Rodney bolts.

Sheppard's waiting in the parking lot. "Where're you going?" he asks, leaning against the door of Rodney's big truck.

"Birthing center," Rodney says. "Get in or get out of the way."

Sheppard gets in, and they sit (in Sheppard's case) and pace (in Rodney's case) in the birthing center waiting area together. They've been there for half an hour when Dex shows up with a hand-held camera. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Rodney asks, "I do _not_ need this crap," but Dex shrugs. (It shows up later on film as an up-and-down motion of the camera, clear as a telegraph signal.) "Teyla said it would be okay," Dex says, and Rodney rolls his eyes and goes back to pacing.

Kanaan comes out an hour after that. "It's a boy," he says, beaming, disheveled. "Healthy and strong."

Rodney feels faint and sits abruptly. "Oh," he says, "that's good."

Sheppard shakes Kanaan's hand and backs away from an incipient hug. "Congrats, man," he says, looking uncomfortable, and goes over to Rodney. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Rodney says. "Just - hungry. I'm hungry," he says. Kanaan leaves off shaking Ronon's hand and talking excitedly into the camera and laughs.

"Teyla, too," he says. "She sent me out for food."

"We'll bring her something," Sheppard says quickly. "What does she want?"

"I don't know," Kanaan says, still laughing. "Just food - anything. She's a vegetarian," he calls after them, and Rodney waves a hand at him, _I know, I know_ , backing out of the room.

They make a run to Tim Horton's and pick up everything vegetarian on the menu (an egg salad wrap, vegetable soup, bagels, donuts), plus a serving of everything sweet and fattening for themselves (donuts, donuts, donuts and two large coffees, extra cream and sugar).

Rodney scarfs four donuts and a whole coffee on their way back to the birthing center. By the time they carry the food in to Teyla and Kanaan, he's jittery with sugar and terrified he might see a nipple. "What if she's _breastfeeding?_ " he hisses to Sheppard.

Sheppard swallows, a visible bob of his adam's apple, then pushes manfully through the door. "We'll just have to pretend not to see anything," he says.

Teyla isn't breastfeeding, she's sitting up in the bed holding a small bundle of blankets. Her smile when they come in is blinding, and leaves Rodney blinking, smiling back, unable not to. "Hello, come and meet my son - come and meet Torren," she says.

Rodney dutifully peers over her arm, into the small bundle of blankets. Torren is sleeping, a small larva of a creature, dark wrinkled face and thatch of black hair, pursed lips like a rosebud. "He's - he's very small," Rodney manages, and everyone laughs, even him, face heating to pink, looking intently at the tiny fists, the perfect whorl of one ear, lashes like commas on his cheeks. Rodney glances up into Teyla's face, then down again. "I didn't realize how small a newborn is," he explains, softly.

Teyla's smiling at him, radiant and exhausted. "Large enough," she says, laughing a little. "A burden and a joy," she says, "a welcome joy."

Rodney touches one curled hand. "Too small to swing a hammer, just now," he says, and Teyla laughs again.

"You can teach him soon," she says.

"I will," Rodney promises. He leans down and kisses Teyla's cheek, realizes suddenly that everyone is watching, grinning cheerfully at them both. "All right, all right," he says, backing away, gruff and happy, "get some rest." He sees John smirking, Ronon and Kanaan's pleased smiles, the blank unwinking gaze of the camera in Ronon's left hand. "I'll come see you tomorrow, or the next day," he promises, and Teyla nods, looking at him, at Kanaan - down again at the small miracle in her arms. "Rest up, I need you back when you're ready, and you can bring Torren, too." Rodney backs out the door, then pokes his head back in. "You, Sheppard - come on. I'm your ride."

Sheppard touches Teyla's hand, peeks at the baby and says something to her, mumbled, a smile flashing across his face and into his eyes, and he follows Rodney out, slapping Kanaan on the shoulder as he passes him, flipping a loose salute to Ronon on his way out the door.

Rodney strides quickly to his car. "Wow," he says a few minutes later, behind the wheel, driving on autopilot through the quiet streets of the nighttime city.

"Yeah," Sheppard says, and blows out a quick breath. "Wow."

Streetlights flicker across his face, and Rodney thinks he looks a little distant. They don't speak again for a while. Rodney realizes just as he turns onto his street that he should have taken Sheppard back to his car. "Shit," he says, "sorry, I'll -" He waves one hand in the air.

"Can I come in for a little?" Sheppard asks. "I'll never sleep with all that coffee in me, and you don't look tired. We should -" he pauses. "We should talk about putting the final touches on the last few episodes, voice-overs, that stuff."

"Oh," Rodney slows, turns into his driveway, "sure - yes. I'm definitely not ready to sleep." He pulls the big Ford as far up the driveway as he can and turns off the engine. "Do you want a beer?"

"Sure," Sheppard says, but neither of them move. The truck ticks, engine cooling in the cool summer night, and Rodney switches off the headlights and stares blindly into the darkness beside his dark house.

There's a long silence.

"I wonder if she planned it that way," Sheppard says finally, a chuckle in his voice.

"What? No, she - oh, you're kidding." Rodney snorts at himself and at Sheppard. "Although, knowing Teyla - maybe."

Sheppard laughs, a startled donkey bray of a laugh, and Rodney chokes. "Good lord, come in, what are we doing? I've got beer in the house," he's climbing out of the cab of the truck, Sheppard doing the same on his side, still grinning, "a cat who needs feeding, some pretty face of a narrator laughing like a jackass in my driveway -"

They get into the kitchen and Rodney flips on the light, a flood of yellow brightness that makes him blink. Sheppard's close behind him, eyes narrow and tired in his sun-lined, laugh-lined face, smiling at him. Rodney smiles back and feels a familiar flutter of nerves in his belly, down low - that dry throat he gets when he looks too closely at Sheppard's skeptically arched eyebrows and the curve of his mouth. It comes on fast and hard, sometimes - now, today, tonight.

Luckily Ingo is there to distract him, both of them. "Starving cat," Rodney says, talking to Sheppard as he follows a meowing Ingo to the food bowl, opens the plastic container beside it and scoops out a cupful of kitty chow. "You can tell he's wasting away." Rodney dumps the food, closes the container and rubs Ingo's head as the cat eats greedily, purring around his bites.

"Yeah, he looks skinny," John agrees. When Rodney straightens, John's right there, still smiling at him.

"I know, seriously, he acts like he's... hey." John's really close. This close, Rodney can see the soft indent in the center of his lower lip and the dip of the upper, a perfect place to kiss - like a target. It's Rodney who feels targeted, though, trapped - pleasurably trapped, a small tight thrill of panic and anticipation. "Hi."

"Hi." John licks his own lips, looks nervous. "McKay - Rodney. Are you - can I..."

"Yes, yes, it's fine," Rodney stammers, because he's terrible at this, but after nearly a year of working with Sheppard, he knows perfectly well that Sheppard must be even worse - he's imagined it, even, almost like this. Rodney's stomach flip-flops, but he reaches up and wraps a hand around the back of Sheppard's neck, pulls him in. "It's fine," Rodney repeats, hurried, glancing up into Sheppard's rueful, clear hazel gaze, then back down to his pink, parted lips, "please."

"Okay," Sheppard says quietly, hoarse, and they kiss for the first time like that: Sheppard's hands loose at his sides, his whole body leaning in toward Rodney's, mouth soft and open.

"God, oh," Rodney says; Sheppard's hands lift to cup Rodney's elbows, slide up to his biceps and hold there as he sways forward into Rodney's body. "Oh," Rodney says into Sheppard's mouth, "mm, okay." They kiss more, Sheppard's mouth opening under Rodney's, the slick, curious touch of his tongue. Rodney's distracted by the juxtaposition of Sheppard's kisses: soft and lush and deep - to his body: lean and hard, pressing against Rodney from thigh to chest, long fingers wrapped around his upper arms like an anchor, clinging.

"Let's - can we -" Rodney breaks the kiss, gasping, heart thudding in his chest and the balls of his feet - "will you spend the night?" Sheppard's nape is hot under his hand, and his eyes look heavy, almost sleepy. Rodney wants him desperately, can't stop the pleading he knows must be in his face.

"Yeah - yes," Sheppard says. "I want to." He half-smiles and kisses the corner of Rodney's mouth. "That'd be good."

It's good - better than good. It's not fireworks or crashing waves on the beach (Rodney thinks, waking up and blinking at the ceiling in the pre-dawn light), but it's _good_. Sheppard - John - is still asleep beside him, soft nasal breathing and the inky splash of his hair against the pillowcase. Rodney wonders if Shep - John, _John_ , dammit, there'd been teasing about that at one point - Rodney wonders how much John needs sleep. Does he need it more than, say, a handjob? Because god, Rodney wants John in his hand again, wants to hear the short, choked-off groan John makes when he comes. It's got Rodney hard again, and he rolls against John quietly. Maybe he can _influence_ him. A little. Gently.

He nestles beside John, putting an arm and a leg across him, pressing his hard-on into the smooth curve of John's thigh. It feels good, so he does it again. And maybe one more time.

"McKay," John says, sleepy and amused, and Rodney lifts his head to see John looking down at him, head lifted briefly before it flops back down onto the pillow. "Are you humping my leg?"

"No," Rodney says hurriedly. "Well. Maybe a little? You just looked good."

"Unconscious is a good look for me," John agrees, and shifts, worming one arm under Rodney's neck and wrapping it loosely around his shoulders. "Hey."

"Hi," Rodney says. "Good morning. I, uh. Hmm." He falls back on nonverbal communication and allows himself to collapse against John. He's carefully still, not rubbing or even nudging his dick against Sheppard's hairy thigh, even though it's _right there_ , and it would feel great. He does sigh contentedly against Sheppard's shoulder, though.

"Well," John says, "did you have something in mind?" His voice is sleep-rough and delicious, and Rodney presses a kiss to his shoulder before he can stop himself, because it's there and he wants to.

"I did, actually," Rodney says, and slides his hand down John's belly.

~*~

It's not all unicorns and glitter pens and blowjobs, Rodney thinks later, but it's solid and strong at the core. It's like one of his jobs - it takes hard work and planning, guessing about all the things that might go wrong. He's not good at knowing about people the way he is about walls and floors and roofs and windows, and that frustrates him. John's even worse, or maybe he's better, but it doesn't matter because he's monumentally incapable of talking about it. Talk of feelings sends him looking for the loudest power tool to stand beside, so he can cup one hand over his ear and shout "What?!" while grinning at Rodney.

The sex is good, though, and it gets better and better as they learn each other and lose their initial embarrassment. The only place John's vulnerable is in bed (or that hot tub), where he's shameless - unafraid and needy, bossy and flexible and willing to surrender everything. Rodney doesn't have as much experience, but curiosity and the internet are excellent instructors, and images of John spread out and begging are very inspirational.

If neither of them tries to talk about stuff like feelings, they do fine. And on the rare occasions when Rodney just can't stand John's lack of communication, he goes to Teyla for help. In general though, he and John are both content to coast along together, talking about sports (hockey versus football, a ridiculous argument to have in Toronto, as Rodney makes clear), TV (they both like terrible science fiction movies, the bigger the bugs, the better), movies (original Star Wars, Star Trek in most incarnations, almost all James Bond movies) and work.

When Torren is nine months old and the show is six months into its second season, Elizabeth Weir requests a private meeting with John and Rodney.

"All right, gentlemen," she says, seated at the kitchen table with them both, "what's the plan?"

Rodney looks at John, looks at Elizabeth. "Plan for what?" he says. "For the show? I plan to continue making a ton of money and putting all of it into long-term investments."

"Are our ratings down?" John asks Elizabeth.

"They're not," Rodney says aggressively, "you know they're not. They're up, my god, our ratings with women 18 to 44 have jumped by 20 percent since Teyla started bringing Torren to work in that little, ah, sling thing, the cloth wrappy thingy -"

"No, ratings are not down," Elizabeth interrupts, her eyes crinkling in a small smile. "The show is fine. Great, in fact, as you know." She nods at them both, a small bow of the head before she sits up straight and faces them, hands steepled on the table. "However, we do need to have a plan in place about certain... eventualities." She raises an eyebrow at them.

John leans back in his chair, away from her, arms folded across his chest. (It shows off his biceps against the black cotton of his t-shirt, Rodney notes. He likes John's predilection for tight black t-shirts.) "Oh, yeah?" he says, but his body language says _hell, no_ , and although Rodney has no idea what's going on, he immediately wants to protect John from this, whatever this is - this attack?

But Elizabeth doesn't look like she's attacking, or doing anything but possibly being interested in the conversation. In fact she looks slightly amused, and her posture doesn't change.

" _What_ eventualities?" Rodney blurts out.

"Do you want to tell him, John, or shall I?" Elizabeth says.

John looks away, mouth thinned. "You do it," he says.

"All right," she says. "Rodney," looking directly at him now, ignoring John's provocative slouch and remote expression, "it's common knowledge on the set that you and John are something of an item."

"What? Since when?" Rodney says. "We've been very professional!" His mind flashes back to all the times he's stolen a kiss from John behind plastic dust-sheets with no one around, the pats on the ass they've both bestowed and received. The crew members know, of course - it would be useless to try to hide it, when half John's clothes are at Rodney's house and they ride to the job site together most mornings. But they've always been careful to keep it out of sight of anyone with a camera or anyone not intimately involved with the daily work of the show. Also, of course, there’s the fact that John is about as publicly affectionate as Robocop, and more likely to express his feelings by whacking Rodney in the back of the head. _That_ he’s done on camera, and often, but it’s hardly enough to get the gossip mills churning, and Rodney tells Elizabeth so, at length.

Elizabeth waits until he runs out of words - it takes some time - and then reaches across the table to put her hand over his. "It won't work, Rodney. No," she holds her hand up to forestall the new torrent of words waiting to explode, "hear me out."

She looks from one to the other of them. "The fact is, the show is getting big, really big, and you're both getting celebrity status. Now, I don't think the National Enquirer is going to come knocking on your door, but we've already started getting calls from _People_ and _Us Weekly_ , wanting to profile one or both of you. The first question they're going to ask is about your love life." She cocks her head at Rodney. "What would you like to tell them?"

"That it's none of their damned business," John says, turning his head back toward them both. He's been gazing out the window for most of the conversation, looking at the back deck and yard.

"I - what?" Rodney looks at him. "Well, yes, obviously, but - I don't care who knows about it," he says. "Do you?" He can't help himself - a note of anxiety creeps into his voice, and he hates himself for it. Why do they have to talk about _feelings_ , and why the _hell_ does Elizabeth have to be here for it?

John shakes his head immediately, though, which is comforting, even if his next words aren't. "No, I don't give a damn - but our viewers will, and our advertisers will, and that's what the network's concerned about. Isn't it?" He scowls at Elizabeth, a deep line drawn between his brows.

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes," she replies. "We do have some advertisers we suspect will not be comfortable with a show hosted by two openly gay men. We have many others," she added, "who will be fine with it - and I want to be clear, Rodney, _John_ ," she forces John to look at her, Rodney thinks, by pure force of will, "that the network is willing to go down whatever path you two are comfortable with. We can be as blatant or as private as you want to be."

Rodney looks at John; he's studying the table, the line still there between his eyebrows, but a little shallower. Rodney looks at Elizabeth again, trying to gauge her honesty. It's a useless effort - he's just not good at people - but going by past experience, Elizabeth doesn't bullshit them, so Rodney decides he's okay with trusting what she says.

"Can we talk about it?" he asks, hesitant. It's not just _his_ life he's deciding about, and that's uncomfortable enough in itself. It brings up all kinds of - well, emotions, and other stuff, and Rodney fidgets in his chair, wishing for a jigsaw or a router, something loud and distracting, something he's _good_ at.

"Of course," Elizabeth says immediately. She stands and pushes her chair in. "Take your time, but let me know when you've decided how you want to handle things. We need a plan in place."

Rodney nods, sees John look away again. It's worrisome, but at least they have some time.

~*~

Except it turns out they don't. Two days later there's a tiny photo cut-out of John and Rodney's heads, bent together in conference, on the front of Star Magazine, in the lower left-hand corner. _Just how manly are HGTV's manly men?_ the blurb reads, and inside on page 14 there's a one-column story from "former contractor for HGTV's hit _McKay's House_ Todd Geist" all about how everyone still on set knows McKay and co-host John Sheppard are homosexual lovers.

Rodney's doorbell rings at six a.m.; he shrugs Ingo off his arm and rolls out of bed, staggering toward the hall. "Robe," John rasps, voice still asleep, wits luckily less so than Rodney's. Neither of them particularly loves mornings.

Robe thrown over himself, Rodney stumbles the rest of the way to the front door, yawning, eyes half-shut.

It's Elizabeth. "Hi, Rodney," she says, sharp, cool and terrifyingly benign, "can I come in?" She does without waiting for his mumbled answer, heels clicking on the bamboo flooring as she heads for the kitchen. "Get John up and put on some pants - I need to talk to you both." She doesn't turn to watch as he obeys, but instead begins rummaging in his cabinets like she owns the place.

"When did everyone start thinking they could just go through my stuff?" Rodney grumbles. He bends for his jeans, crumpled on the floor, groaning as he comes up with his own and John's. "Put these on," he says, throwing them onto John's head (John is peering out from under the covers, eyes puffy but amused). "Elizabeth's making pancakes or something."

"Coffee, more likely," John says, but he sits up and stretches.

Elizabeth shows them the magazine over coffee. "I hope you've talked," she says. "Because I need to know _right now_ how you want to handle this."

"I don't - we haven't -" Rodney says, lame. "I don't know." He looks at John. "You know what I think," he says quietly. "You know how I feel about it." He's talked about it with John for the last two days, after all. No, not _with_ John: _to_ John, or possibly at him. John doesn't say much; just enough so Rodney knows he's afraid of being publicly out, but doesn't want to lie, either.

John nods and studies his hands; they're flat on the table and he's sitting up for once, instead of slouching back like a recalcitrant teenager. His back is straight, head bent as he looks at his knuckles, as if the answer Rodney and Elizabeth are waiting for might be written there.

"John?" Elizabeth prompts him.

He looks up. "Yeah. Okay." He takes a deep breath and looks back down at his coffee, then at Elizabeth. _Not at me_ , Rodney notes, but it's a strangely distant thought. John's voice sounds strange, too, far away, and Rodney thinks part of that is John and part is the way Rodney's hearing it. "Okay," John says again, "here's the thing." Another breath. "If everything goes to hell, if all our advertisers pull out and the network decides to throw us to the wolves," he shakes his head at Elizabeth as she starts to speak, "if the show is cancelled, then - well." He looks at Rodney, just for a second, like he's bracing himself; looks back at Elizabeth. "Then Rodney goes back to being a successful contractor with no TV show, but I go back to being just another guy with a journalism degree and no TV show." He looks down again. "And those guys don't get paid much of a living wage."

"That's _bullshit_ , what makes you think I would even have any jobs left if I lost the show, or want them if I -" Rodney starts to protest, but Elizabeth says at the same time, "The network will _not_ throw anyone to the wolves, not if I have anything to say about it" and Rodney's outburst is tangled up in hers, and they both stop talking.

They look at each other, then at John to see what he thinks, and he looks up. He's smirking a little, even though his eyes are still troubled. "Enough already," he says. "I get it." One hand even makes a tiny, abortive move toward Rodney's, which is practically an on-camera French kiss, in terms of declarations of affection from John Sheppard. "Thanks."

Rodney starts to talk, shakes his head and looks at Elizabeth. "What do you think we should do?"

She sits back in her chair and folds her hands on the table. "I've been thinking about it. Maybe we should just present it as a fait accompli - just be honest."

"Please, I thought you were from California," Rodney scoffs. He scoots his chair closer to John's.

She smiles. "Amusing. What I mean is, just tell those who ask that you've been dating for, what - a year?"

"Nine and a half months," John says, and Rodney looks at him, surprised. John's ears turn pink. "What? Teyla just told me yesterday that Torren will be ten months old in two weeks, and it's easy to remember, so... shut up."

Rodney smirks at him, and notices that Elizabeth is smiling, too. "That's a _dor_ able," she says, then adds "but let's just call it about a year, shall we?" She sips at her coffee. "The point is, news that's a year old is no news. Does everyone on the crew know?" They look at each other; shrug and nod. "Fine. So - the story isn't a story. It's just something boring, a well-known fact nobody cares about."

Rodney looks at John. He's looking less troubled. "So we just... go on the radar?"

Elizabeth nods. "That's what I'd do. Let me assure you both, again, that the network will _not_ be throwing anyone to the wolves. We're the people who give interior designers their shot at fame, remember?" She looks serious. "More and more companies are realizing it's in their best interest to be gay-friendly, too - some of our biggest advertisers are squarely on the side of right on this one, from Owens Corning to American Express and a bunch in between. All right?" If she sounds a little rehearsed, she also sounds sincere, and Rodney nods back, a little slowly.

"All right." She stands. "So what do you want to do?"

"Let's do what you said," John says. "If it's okay with Rodney."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Yes, obviously."

"Good. I'll get to work on it." She makes for the door, Rodney and John trailing behind. "I'll call Sam for you, John, since I don't expect she can afford to waste the four hours it'll take for you to tell her what's going on. Rodney, do you have anyone?"

"Just Carter," he says, feeling a little weak with reaction.

"Even better. You share a publicist. My god, this story writes itself." She turns on the step and looks up at them both; they're crowded into the doorway, watching her. "There's going to be some fall-out - you know that, right?" They nod. "Good. It shouldn't be anything major, and I honestly don't think we'll lose any funding." She tips her head to one side. "I don't suppose I could convince you to move in with each other?"

John chokes and ducks back into the house. Rodney rolls his eyes. "I don't need this crap," he says, "go away. We have to be on site in an hour and my coffee needs re-heating."

~*~

They lose three local advertisers, gain one national. There are some supportive and some nasty Tweets, some letters and emails from old-school haters, an orgy of analysis and speculation in the entertainment news that lasts about ten minutes, and... that's it. The requests for personal interviews do come fast and heavy for a while, but after two or three of them are granted the others taper off abruptly. John's absolute refusal to say anything serious about his personal life, combined with Rodney's acidic wit, make them poor subjects for most interviewers.

By the time Torren is two John and Rodney have moved in together. Rodney's production company gets credit at the end of every show (right before HGTV): A big NHMR in pseudo-Roman font, which is scooped up and off-screen by a cartoon shovel.

("NHMR?" Lorne asks. "It's Latin," Dex replies. Lorne nods. It always seems to fall to John to explain _Non Hanc Merdum Requiro_ to investors and advertisers, the faces Elizabeth parades around the worksites, dodging between cameras and electricians. John usually defines _merdum_ as crap, though, and all the faces get it, they all laugh. John sometimes feels the urge to seek Rodney out and slap the back of his head after these sessions with Elizabeth and her never-ending parade of television tourists. Rodney's only consolation is his very healthy fifty-two percent share in NHMR Productions. John Sheppard and Teyla Emmagen, the only other partners, each have twenty-four percent.)

Rodney and John are still careful about public displays of affection, but Rodney has a hard time keeping his hands off John all day. He still wants John, can feel like he's been turned to stone by a certain look: a secret laugh in John's hazel eyes as they catch Rodney's to share the joke; the angle of his shoulders and neck as he reaches for a tool or camera; the long, lean curve of his torso when he slouches in a chair or hops up to sit on an unfinished countertop, banging his boots into the cabinets below until Caldwell comes roaring into the room, brandishing a level or a hammer.

Then John's laughing eyes again, catching Rodney's, turning him to stone for an instant, burning like he's never _had_ John, like John's never had him; like they don't, by this time, know one another's every want, every kink, every secret and sacred desire.

So, yes: Rodney has a hard time keeping his hands off John all day.

During the summer break between their third and fourth seasons, John and Ronon spend a few weeks putting together a "behind the scenes at McKay's House" special. They pick one of their recent remodels, an elderly couple with a could-be beautiful old Victorian home. The episode around the house was a good one, Rodney thought, and the work some of their best. They'd updated the appliances, made the house accessible to the elderly couple - wife with a cane, husband in a wheelchair - and preserved the spirit of the home, made it a classic and classy old house again.

In the behind-the-scenes show, John and Ronon display the cameras, the flubs, the difficulties of dealing with safety issues while still creating a good-looking, marketable television programme. Each segment, though, is bracketed with montages from the three seasons so far. There's a montage of Torren, from Teyla's pregnant belly in overalls, preceding her entrance into every room, to his two-year-old visits to the set to see his mom, chubby brown hands clutching a hammer or fisted in John's hair as John piggy-backs him through the house. There's a montage of injuries: slammed fingers, hammered thumbs, gouges and cuts of various calibres and the rush to the emergency room (followed, of course, by a bandaged thumbs-up from the injured party). There's a montage of The Many Faces of McKay, special attention paid to the angry vein in his forehead when he's off on a particular rant, and another of The Many Faces of Sheppard, narrow-beam focus on his goofy expressions, the faces he makes when Rodney can't see him, the eye rolls when Zelenka veers into frantic Czech on an esoteric aspect of wiring.

At the very end of the show, after the Victorian is revealed in all its beauties, after the back-stage look at the crew party celebrating with the homeowners, there's a montage of John and Rodney together: head-slaps, pats on the shoulder, the way Rodney grabs John's arm when he's explaining something to him, the way John reaches for Rodney's wrist and tows him through the house to look at something he's interested in. Finally there's a distant, poorly lit (nearly silhouetted) glimpse of them talking together behind the house in the evening, face-to-face in profile and obviously secure in the belief they're alone. Rodney's hands fly through the air, wild gesticulations, and John grabs his hands and stands there, holding Rodney's hands still between their bodies as he speaks. Rodney shrugs, nods and they turn back to the house together. John slings an arm over Rodney's shoulder and they lean together just for a second as they walk. That's how the show ends.

Rodney looks at John, blinking as the credits roll. "What was _that?_ " he asks.

John mutes the TV. "I dunno." He ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck. "Ronon liked it." He slouches further into the sofa cushions.

"Hmm." Rodney looks at the muted television. A cartoon shovel scoops up "NHMR" and is replaced by the HGTV Canada logo. "You were okay with it, too?"

John shrugs, very interested in his kneecaps. "Yeah. I liked it, too."

Rodney feels a slow, pleased smile steal across his face. "You _romantic_."

"What?" John squawks, struggling upright, mouth open in horror. "Shut up!"

"No, no. That was a love letter if ever I did see one. Tell the truth, who cut that last bit together?" Rodney demands, levering himself over to straddle John, pinning him down. John's face is bright red, ears and everything.

"I'll never tell!" he says, and although he still won't look at Rodney, he's grinning stupidly and his hands settle on Rodney's denim-clad thighs easily. "God, you weigh a ton, no more pizza for you."

"Don't try to change the subject," Rodney says, jouncing up and down a little for good measure. "You're a big old sap, _Sheppard_ , just like I always knew."

"Not," John insists. He looks up, meets Rodney's eye with an insouciant gleam in his own. "I just wanted to get laid," he explains sweetly.

"Ha!" Rodney stops trying to cut off the circulation to John's legs and stays where he is. There is indeed a bulge in John's jeans, and Rodney is getting more interested in their position by the moment, himself. "Well, you may get what you want," he says, smirking, feeling self-conscious. In the heat of the moment he can talk dirty like a champion, but he feels silly doing it now, with all their clothes on.

On the other hand - John's still blushing, but he's also moved one hand smack onto the inner seam of Rodney's jeans. John squeezes and Rodney forgets to feel silly - he groans, rewarded by another squeeze. John sits up straighter, leans forward to lick Rodney's neck and then bite at one shoulder.

"Come on," he mumbles, "let's go to the bedroom."

They do, and they've gotten better (Rodney thinks, blinking sleepily at the ceiling after): maybe no waves crashing on the beach, but fireworks? Definitely. Two years of practice have paid off.

John's half-awake beside him, blissed out, naked and sated and sweaty. "Now who's the romantic?" he mumbles, one arm thrown over his face so Rodney can only see his smile.

"Not coming on your face is hardly my definition of romance," Rodney says, rolling his eyes.

"Like the knights of old," John murmurs, smile widening.

Rodney rolls over with an effort and smacks John with a pillow. "Shut up."

"Yes, my lord," John says, still grinning.

"'Rodney' is fine," Rodney says, " _John._ " He shoves at John until he can spoon him properly.

"Yes, Rodney," John says, and reaches back to pat Rodney's hip.

 

  


~ THE END ~ 

  



End file.
